Oh Dear, Diary
by The Secret Enigma
Summary: Sparrow's chosen method of frustration relief ... Female Sparrow, rated T: mild suggestive themes.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Fable franchise, Fable II, or any of the characters, places, or other creations associated with these games. The following is based on some thoughts I had while playing Fable II, and what I thought Sparrow might say if he/she (in this case she) kept a diary.**

SPARROW'S DIARY

13 September, _,

I love the people of Albion. Goodness knows, I couldn't do what I do if I didn't. I'm the national odd jobs person, excepting that I can do things too dangerous for most. If anybody needs a banshee eliminated, a singing ale barrel disenchanted, or just wants to rescue their cat from a tree, I'm their person. And I honestly don't mind. However, what I do mind is the local population's persistence in attempting to make me a regular feature of their own daily lives whenever I live in their vicinity. It was so peaceful in the beginning: I was well liked, but had my own space. Now, I get followed around relentlessly the moment I step out the door. If I stay at an inn, there's a crown waiting outside my room, just because they want to _see_ me. They literally just_ want to look at me_. No matter how much their adoration honours me, I really think they need more hobbies. I have to make sure that nobody follows me too far from town, lest I'm attacked while they're with me. I'll never forget the shock I got when dear old Daniel from the Gypsy Camp attempted to rescue _me_ from a troll: I ended up rescuing _him_, and he got four broken ribs and permanent scarring as souvenirs. He's still in love with me, though. As is what appears to be the majority of the national population.

Tact has never been a national trait in Albion, I gather. I don't mind my old gypsy friends suggesting that I need a haircut, but I do mind when every person in town feels compelled to advise me on style: If anybody dislikes my hair, makeup, or clothing, I get showered with such endearing comments as, 'Why would you make yourself look so ugly?' You've got to love them, really, to put up with them. Then there are the romantic propositions: subtlety isn't a national trait, either. I know full well what a 'roll in the hay', is, and I'm well and truly sick of hearing what the special qualities of seafood are. These propositions have abated somewhat since I married my darling Bob, but some still try their luck. (Prostitutes never give up, either). Actually, our honeymoon was somewhat claustrophobic: I'm convinced that the other gypsies were eavesdropping on us on our wedding night, and then when we got to Bowerstone, I had to dodge the guards, as they wouldn't even let me have my honeymoon without begging me to rescue slaves or kill hobbes. I felt guilty the whole trip. Buying condoms is always an embarrassment, too.

Not that anybody is happy with my childbearing skills, either. Even a physically active Hero can have trouble with post-baby weight. Nobody let me forget it, either. I remember one precocious newlywed commenting, 'You could afford te lose som' weight, ye know. Yer 'usband's goin' te start thinking yur ugly if ye don't.' I'm somewhat surprised, in retrospect, that I have not smashed anybody yet. Oh, I hardly mind a few snubs, or criticisms. The problem is, you can't say I'm only getting a _few_.

I suppose it all began when I got my first day job at the Bowerstone blacksmith's forge. I had learned smith-craft from Theresa, and could do it well. However, smithing is not a career associated with women, which meant that I aroused much curiosity. Actually, I think I aroused more than curiosity. Unable to work shirtless like the men do in the boiling forge, I acquired some shorts, a bustier, and a bolero jacket to cover my shoulders when I wasn't working. Naturally, this outfit showed somewhat more flesh than I would usually display, and I could not but notice that, after the initial curiosity, I still had a faithful audience of male admirers. The househusbands watched my entire six hour shift, and working men dropped in when they had their lunch breaks. A few women too, naturally. The househusbands usually brought things to do while they watched, ranging from knitting to worm racing. A few brought their chickens: They professed to believe that my presence encouraged egg production. I put my foot down when my boss, James, (bless him), decided to charge people who wanted to watch: two gold an hour, one gold for less, and day-long viewers entered for five gold. He even set up seating. I told him that if he didn't send them away, I'd quit. Nobody took it badly though. Most eventually admitted that they were amazed that I'd put up with it for so long. I believe that the spouses of my 'audience' were relieved when I kicked the proverbial chicken, (not to be confused with kicking the proverbial bucket, which I obviously have not done at this time).

These days, life is fairly peaceful, thanks to the Oakfield Demon Door. I live at Serenity Farm with Bob, and our two beloved children. As it's sealed to all unofficial visitors, I only have to endure a parade when we go into town. And, as I mentioned, the intensity of these displays is becoming less marked. Maybe they realise that, underneath all the mystique, I also have needs, desires, and human failings. I savour the bliss I am finally able to experience, and dread the day that Theresa foresaw, when I will become queen, and live at Bowerstone Castle, (where I expect I will not be permitted to use the lavatory without an audience).

Thank goodness for diaries. If I didn't keep one, I'd never be able to put up with people as graciously as I do. I do find it much more soothing than the other methods of venting I've tried: that tree has got a dent in it where I used to bash my head. (Just joking!) Kicking the odd chicken helps, of course, and people generally think it's hilarious, but I hate to think how the chicken feels.

There. Now I can go on loving everyone, and I won't be tempted to throw anyone to the nearest balverine.

Sparrow.

**Thanks for reading. If you liked this story or have constructive criticism, reviews are appreciated.**


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